


That afternoon, there was only you

by queerwix



Series: Let's Get Lost [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Teenage!AU, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:45:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerwix/pseuds/queerwix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And well, here they were now. Swimming in the canal, at Sherlock’s whim. John would always indulge him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That afternoon, there was only you

**Author's Note:**

> Teenage!AU, based on the song "I Still Remember" by Bloc Party.

They lay sprawled across the grass, mere inches away, so close. _But not nearly close enough_ , John thought. He squinted discreetly at the boy next to him, from underneath his bangs, and licked his lips unconsciously. The boy was tall for his age, and scrawny, a mop of unruly curls adorning his head—a luscious rich chocolaty colour—clad in his school uniform, blazer askew and tie loose around his neck. He was a couple of years his junior, but only a grade below him. The boy was Sherlock Holmes.

He glanced down at his mouth, those full beautiful lips, dark compared to his fair skin. He imagined what it would be like to kiss them, taste the curve of his cupid’s bow, and damn if he wasn’t a god—even at his young age he was breathtakingly beautiful—an Adonis, a sculpture carved by tender hands. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut yourself on, and his grey eyes were all-knowing, shifting colour as you looked into them, and if you didn’t watch your step, you could lose yourself completely. John blinked and shook his head slightly, pulling his gaze away from that face. It wasn’t possible. Sherlock was still months away from sixteen, and John would be graduating soon. _Too soon_ , the voice in his head whispered. Suddenly, the boy next to him moved, propped himself up on his elbow, and lit up a cigarette before turning his gaze to John. He exhaled slowly, the smoke adding to his ethereal beauty, and then his mouth quirked up in a grin, a Cheshire cat grin, mischievous and secretive. And that gleam in his eyes, god, John wanted to _devour_ him.

Instead, he offered a half-smile and peered up at him. “Hm?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Sherlock was thinking.

(Sherlock was thinking two things: firstly, how extraordinarily stunning John looked in the golden light, and secondly, whether or not he would welcome an advance. However, Sherlock was extremely inexperienced in that area, _in fact_ , he had no experience whatsoever. He was also shy.)

“I was…,” he started, then his brows wrinkled and for a second he almost looked insecure, “Thinking it was a nice day for a swim.” He inclined his head toward the canal, a few yards away, and took another drag.

John’s heart skipped a beat, and he cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, hoping his face didn’t betray anything he didn’t want to be seen, but he knew that was a near impossible feat when it came to Sherlock. “That would be… Nice. Yeah. But isn’t it, well, a bit forbidden?”

“Hm.” Sherlock inhaled, took a moment, exhaled. “But there’s no one around, see.” He flashed another grin, stabbed his cigarette out in the grass and got up with absurd grace, undoing his tie further as he strolled over to the side of the bank.

“Yeah, alright.” John sighed as he pulled himself to his feet and followed, pulling at his own tie, his hands trembling just a little bit, his mind racing. _He’s going to get undressed and then get into the water, and then oh, oh, no, stop staring at him for god’s sake_. He took a deep breath as he stopped and tugged his jumper over his head after having cast his tie aside. _Shit bugger and fuck_. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair and moved his hands to his buttons, taking his time. Sherlock gave him an odd stare and John thought, _he must be thinking I’m stupid_.

(Actually, Sherlock was wondering how it would feel to run _his_ hand through that straw-coloured hair. And undo those buttons. And… But, _no_.)

John slipped out of his shirt, letting it drop to the grass, and hesitated briefly before undoing his trousers and letting them fall to the ground, too. His ears were turning red but with any luck, his slightly shaggy hair would hide that. _You’re not embarrassed_ , he told himself sternly, _you’ve done this plenty of times in the changing rooms_. He scratched the back of his neck absentmindedly. _But those blokes aren’t Sherlock_ , the voice whispered. He looked up to see that Sherlock was nude apart from his boxers, and he had an unrecognizable look in his eyes.

(He wanted so badly to reach out and touch John’s hand, run his fingers along his tanned skin, lean into him and brush his lips against John’s, have John’s strong arms around him and melt into his embrace, forgetting everything but _John_. He was so wrapped up in the sight of John that his mind didn’t take notice of fading bruises, and if he did, he chalked it up to rugby.)

“Ready?” Sherlock’s voice was surprisingly fragile.

John cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes. ‘Course.”

And with that, Sherlock turned around and dove into the water, with the grace of a goddamn swan. John kicked off of his shoes and was about to follow, when Sherlock surfaced, rising into the sunlight, all long white limbs and wet curls, and John thought he might’ve gone momentarily blind. He shook himself and jumped in before Sherlock could open his eyes.

The water was not cold, but not warm, either. Refreshing. It was a late spring afternoon and the park was all but clear of people. They had a day off from school, because the teachers had a symposium or training or something like that. This meant most people were going about their daily business, working, drowning in their monochrome lives. John didn’t envy them. He couldn’t imagine how dull it must be, and he knew, neither could Sherlock.

Sherlock was one of a kind. Everyone at school loathed him. Everyone except for John. He had found him… different, yes, definitely different. Intimidating. _Attractive_. And he had felt sorry for him. And he had been utterly surprised when Sherlock had started showing up by his side after classes, initiating a friendship between them. He’d thought… Well, frankly, he’d thought that Sherlock would have just scolded him and kept well out of his way after that one incident.

John had been walking down the hallway only to see a crowd gathering by the lockers, and though he couldn’t see what they were looking at, he could bloody well hear it. There was a fight. Or rather, someone was getting bullied. John usually tried to keep to himself—he didn’t really fit in with all these posh people, who were here because their parents were rich, and not because they could play rugby—but he couldn’t very well turn the other way when some poor sod was getting beaten up. He had his suspicions about who it was, too, and he hated the thought of it. The “FREAK!” that someone had just shouted was confirmation enough. So he’d pushed his way through the crowd and lunged himself at one of the attackers. He’d thrown a few good punches before a passing teacher broke it all up. When they had been waiting outside the head master’s office, Sherlock had said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t underestimate the value of rugby.”

John got a black-eye and a week’s detention, but it had been worth it.

And well, here they were now. Swimming in the canal, at Sherlock’s whim. John would always indulge him. And he looked beautiful in the water, _so beautiful_ , pure and blithe, and John’s heart ached. _I’m yours_ , he thought. _You can have me_. Then a wave of water hit him and John realized that Sherlock was looking expectantly at him (a hint of amazement, even?) and John smiled.

“What _is_ it like in your funny little head?” he teased, but his voice was soft.

(Sherlock really wanted to know. _Really_. John was far more fascinating than the evolution of fungi and the density of gas giants, and so different from anyone else he’d ever met. He was also the only one who had ever elicited these kinds of feelings in Sherlock. He was dying to find out _why_.)

But John merely shrugged and proceeded to splash water at him. At this, Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in mock surprise. He kicked his feet, causing a slightly disastrous wave to hit John square in the face. He scrunched his face and debated whether or not to tackle him, but before he could decide against it, Sherlock was swimming to the shore. He took a breath and dove under, and when he too reached the shore, Sherlock was already out of the water. He’d lain down on a patch of grass next to their joint pile of clothing, sunlight illuminating him, making every inch of porcelain skin positively glow. His eyes were closed and he had one arm tucked behind his head, his sharp elbow sticking out to his left side. The right hand was holding a smouldering fag. John moved sluggishly out of the water and paused, taking a deep breath— _it’s okay, his eyes aren’t open, he can’t see you looking, and god why are you looking!_ —before settling down next to Sherlock. He wasn’t that much shorter than him, really. A couple of inches, maybe. But Sherlock probably still had some growing to do. John was trying not to think about those lips, was trying to keep himself from getting erect in such a vulnerable situation, but it was _hell_. He lay back, ran a hand across his face, and closed his eyes. _Christ, stop it_. He thought he could feel Sherlock hum with life next to him; hear the soft pounding of his heart across the grass— _ba-dum, ba-dum_ —sense his every movement, however slight. It was relaxing, and oddly intimate, and he revelled in it.

There was a scarce sound of movement— _Sherlock was putting out his cigarette_ , his brain supplied—and then there was a faint thump. _Oh_. John’s hand twitched almost unnoticeably and he swallowed, hard. Their hands were mere millimetres apart. _Don’t get ahead of yourself, John, this doesn’t mean anything_. But he wanted, oh how he wanted to reach out and run his fingertips along that smooth wrist, feel the pulse beneath the thin layer of skin, and knot his fingers through his. His heart was _hammering_ inside his chest, he was sure Sherlock must be—and then Sherlock’s hand _moved_ , just a mere whisper of pale skin against his own, and it felt like an electric shock. _Don’t think, just don’t think_.  But John withdrew his hand, and laid it across his bare stomach, nails lightly digging into his skin, needing to grasp onto something. He realized he’d been holding his breath, so he exhaled, slowly so slowly, so as not to bring attention to the fact that he was holding it in the first place. He wondered if Sherlock would be fooled.

(Sherlock wasn’t. He noticed _everything_ , but he didn’t know what to make of it for once. Was John repulsed? Maybe he didn’t like physical contact—there were signs there, but not enough data for a conclusion. Or maybe he was just shy? Did he feel the same? Sherlock didn’t dare ask. How could he know what John felt when he couldn’t even make sense of his _own_ feelings? He had his suspicions, and this _touching_ certainly seemed to clarify things further; his skin was tingling, and his heart rate had increased remarkably, and there was an odd sensation inside him, like, like… _Butterflies_.)

Slowly, John started to relax, just letting the sunlight envelop him, focusing on the murmurs of the city and counting his own breaths. He liked counting; it gave him a sense of control. He thought he might doze off, and well, he must’ve, because the next time he opened his eyes, he was completely dry. He found Sherlock propped up on his elbow, wearing his trousers and shirt— _not completely buttoned_ , John thought, as if _that_ needed noticing—and he was staring off toward the river, a slight flush to his cheeks. John yawned and ran a hand through his still-slightly-damp hair.

(Sherlock had decidedly _not_ been looking, had he been asked, but he had committed every freckle and every mole on John’s shoulder, neck and face—but only the left side, much to his chagrin—to memory, studied the remnants of a contusion on his abdomen below his ninth rib quite closely, but not close _enough_ because when John had moved his arm he had covered it—not rugby?—and he had also determined the precise number of silvery scars on John’s left arm—not that many, only eleven—nicks and scratches from growing up, mapping out his childhood. The one between his thumb and index finger held particular interest; it looked more like a burn than that of an accidental knife-cut. _Must investigate further_. But he was _not_ going to ask; he had a feeling that John would not appreciate this breach of privacy.)

“You’re awake.” It wasn’t a question.

He sat up, stretching his arms. “I am.” His voice was thick with sleep.

Sherlock tossed a pair of trousers and a shirt to him. “Perhaps we should get going,” he said.

John felt dumb. “’Course. Yeah.”

Sherlock had better places to be, things to do. _Of course_. Just because he might enjoy John’s company from time to time didn’t mean, well, that he wanted to spend an entire day with him. Let alone sit around waiting for John. He suddenly felt very unwanted, and stood up, a bit wobbly. He stepped into his trousers and threw his shirt on, started to do the buttons, his actions automatic—and obviously didn’t notice that he did them up completely wrong—and moved to pick up his jumper from the ground when he felt a slender hand on his wrist. He froze up. The hand pulled away.

Sherlock was standing, his arm halfway extended— _when had he moved?_ —and John looked up at him, cautiously. There were so many feelings welling up inside him. Apprehension, hope, anger. _Arousal_. He shifted his feet and swallowed. Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

“I didn’t mean to—“ He cleared his throat, his eyes darting away to a spot somewhere a few yards away. “Your shirt is unevenly buttoned.”

John could feel his ears turning red. Anger was quickly climbing the charts. He bit his tongue, trying to dampen it; he didn’t want to flare up, not here, not at Sherlock. He hastily undid the buttons and then did them back up again. Sherlock was still staring at the same spot.

(Really, he was trying not to notice John’s skill with undoing buttons, but it was getting increasingly harder not to stare at him openly, letting his eyes fall on those square shoulders, the smooth freckled skin, the slight blonde fuzz trailing down his stomach, and imagine what it would be like to _touch_. Touch that sun warmed skin, those lean muscles. _No_. Instead, he tried his best to collect himself and give the other boy some privacy, because John was clearly getting agitated—whywhywhy _why_ —and so he fixed his gaze intently at some random patch of grass.)

After John had done his shirt _properly_ , he leaned down to pick up his jumper, quickly stuffing it into his rucksack, and after doing his shoes, he picked up one of the two ties that lay tangled together in the grass. He hesitated before pulling it over his head, he wasn’t sure it was his own, but he couldn’t really be bothered to care. He fastened it and then waited, shifted his stance, and cleared his throat when Sherlock very clearly wasn’t paying attention to the fact that he was ready to go.

Sherlock started a bit— _his mind was no doubt off with some godforsaken experiment_ , John thought bitterly—and then nodded, as if affirming John’s thought. John handed him the other tie. Sherlock reached out, and hesitatingly grabbing the tie, and then—

—Then he touched his fingers to John’s, just lightly at first, and then his fingers moved upwards, slowly enclosing his hand around John’s, who was holding onto the tie for dear life, and thought that maybe he shouldn’t because he was trying to give it back, but his limbs just wouldn’t _listen_ , and then they were just standing there, and the world felt so quiet, as if everything had just stopped and there was only _them_ , and there were so many thoughts running through his head like _what_ and _does this mean he_ and _do something_ and _kiss him_ , and when John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s gaze there was something _there_ , but he couldn’t make out _what_.

(Sherlock wanted to say something, _anything_ , but he found himself tongue-tied, immobile.)

Moments passed. It might’ve been seconds, might’ve been minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

John didn’t know who had moved first but _someone_ had, because the next he knew his hand was his own again— _what just happened_ —and it was trembling inside his trouser pocket, aching to touch again, touch _more_ , while Sherlock was lighting up another cigarette, the tie hanging once again loosely around his neck. John did his best not to stare at the hint of pale skin showing beneath the light-blue collar, and cleared his throat.

“You should stop that, y’know,” he mumbled. “Health hazard.”

Sherlock looked up at him then, and a smile ghosted across his features. “Yes, _John_.” You could practically hear the eye-roll in his voice—he made John’s name sound more like _mother_.

John shrugged. “Just saying. What’s the point in being smarter than everyone else if you’re going to kill all of your brain cells off with chemicals?”

Sherlock simply took another drag and stared off again, but a moment later he was putting his cigarette out and picking up his satchel, blazer neatly tucked away inside. John reached for his rucksack— _Sherlock just wants to get out of there, so don’t keep him for god’s sake_ —then he stood, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Ready when you are.” He had meant to say it, but it came out more like a whisper.

“Good.” Sherlock hummed. “Yes.”

(Sherlock didn’t want to go; he wanted to stay here, in the sunlight, filled with unspoken words and warmth and promise and _John_ , make this perfect afternoon last forever.)

They started walking, a few inches apart, _too far apart_ , soles padding across the grass, then the grass turned to gravel and the gravel to pavement, then lush foliage turned into concrete, and soon they were out of the park; back in reality, pushing through passers-by, making their way to the tube station. Once aboard, Sherlock stood rather close to John, _but then_ , he thought, _the tube is crowded. That’s all_. Still, his body refused to listen to rational thought. He could feel Sherlock’s heat despite inches and layers of clothes, and Sherlock’s arm was casually hovering over John’s shoulder, grasping the rail upon which John was leaning. Sherlock seemed to be oblivious to the effects. _Jesus, John. Get a grip_. Luckily, the train slid to a halt after a seemingly endless seven minutes and the familiar “Mind the gap, please” echoed out. Sherlock slithered his arm away from John, and they made their way out of the underground and into Charing Cross station.

It was still a while until their train departed, so John took the opportunity to buy himself a sandwich upon discovering that he was absolutely starving. Apparently they’d been at the park for hours and he realized hadn’t eaten since lunch. So, food.

“Aren’t you hungry?” He mumbled, mouth full, and nudged Sherlock with his elbow when he didn’t respond. “Sherlock.”

“Hm?” Sherlock glanced at him before turning his gaze back to the crowd, people rushing about, always ruled by the clock, trying to keep up. “No,” he said after a few minutes.

“Right then.” John finished his sandwich off and made to get up. “We should get on the train.” He shouldered his rucksack and started his way through the crowd. Sherlock followed, still silent.

(Sherlock was extremely aware of each of John’s actions, but he was trying to remain unperturbed, trying to keep everything from turning awkward, trying his best not to ruin what they had, their companionship, _his only friend_. Apparently he was trying so hard he was actually doing the opposite.)

The silence was kind of odd, coming from Sherlock. He usually talked at length about this and that, experiments, scientific texts, his daft brother, and deductions. John loved to listen to those. He was astonished by how much Sherlock could _see_ , how he could tell someone’s entire life story just by looking at them. When John had asked Sherlock to deduce his life, a couple of days after the incident, he’d had surprisingly little to say.

“You study hard, avoid social interaction and try not to act on any derogatory impulses, so you clearly aren’t another spoiled kid. No, you come from a middle-class family, and you live about half an hour away by bus, in a rather small community.  You have aspirations that clash with your father—a hard worker, but quite successful in his endeavours—’s plans, who desires that you base your career on rugby, who believes this _sport_ —“ the word had rolled off his tongue with a certain amount of disdain ”—is the only thing you’re fully adept at. You enjoy rugby, but you want something more from life. You want to _give something back_.” There were something unspoken in those words, something sounding almost like “even if the world has only ever taken things away from you”. Sherlock probably knew about his dead mother, and his father’s drinking, and everything else. Was Sherlock holding back? John _had_ asked for it. Sherlock didn’t need to hold back. John didn’t know what to make of that.

The train left the station. John sat by the window, forehead pressed against the cold window, while Sherlock sat in the seat next to him, folded together—it always baffled John how he could make himself so _small_ —knees tucked under his chin, eyes closed. John sighed and pulled a pen from his pocket, his fingers itching to do something, _anything_ , and so the windowsill fell victim to his restlessness. He drew birds and trees, the buildings they passed on the way, and scribbled his name in ten different ways. He wondered briefly what it would feel like to write Sherlock’s name. Sherlock, who was immobile next to him, silent as the grave. Sherlock the boy wonder, with wiry limbs and sharp bones. Sherlock who John was utterly in love with. _Stop_. John shook his head and slid the pen back into his pocket. _For chrissakes, John_. He needed a distraction, something to fill up the silence. He looked around.

“What about that man there, in the grey suit?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, glanced to John, then to the man, then back to John. “What about him?”

“I don’t know. What do you see?”

Sherlock glowered at him, thank god. There was something normal to latch onto. “Twenty-nine years of age, painfully aware that he’s turning thirty within the week, works at 30 St Mary Axe and is not handling the pressure too well, or at all, in fact. He’s also having an affair on his long-term girlfriend but doesn’t believe she knows about it, and he’s going home early to make her dinner in the hopes of amending his behaviour. She will accept this apology and they’ll make love later on because she doesn’t believe she can do any better than him. She’ll most likely be wrong, but she won’t realize that until it’s too late.”

“Christ.” John breathed. He looked at the man, who was fiddling with his newspaper, and then he looked back to Sherlock. “That was... quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock looked up at him then, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, and John swore he could see warmth in those grey eyes. They were almost green in this light. Sherlock ducked his head down.

“Really John, the clues are all there. Don’t be so obtuse.”

(Sherlock had to feign indifference, had to keep his guard up, had to keep this well of emotions from overflowing, but his heart was quite possibly bursting in his chest and he could feel his cheeks turning slightly pink. _Don’t ruin it_ , he warned himself.)

John grinned, his whole face crinkling, finally relaxing after two hours of stale silence and awkward efforts, slumping into his seat and resting his arm on the windowsill, completely oblivious to the inky doodles staining his arm where his shirt-sleeve was rolled up.

They rode the rest of the train ride in comfortable silence.

_“Next stop, Greenwich.”_

Sherlock unearthed his blazer, slipping it on, and gathered his things. John tried not to stare openly at him. _And now this day will be over and I’ll graduate next week and I’ll go off to medical school while Sherlock will stay and we’ll never see each other again_. His mind was positively screaming at him to make a move, not even to kiss him but just to _touch him_. John remained still. He was incredibly skilled at self-restraint. Sherlock met his gaze and smiled, one of those rare open smiles.

“I’ll see you around, John.”

With that he was gone, and all that was left was an empty space next to John.

That night, both boys lay in their respective beds, replaying the day in their heads.

John’s room was dark, despite the fullness of the moon and the streetlamps outside. The surrounding buildings blocked out mostly everything except for the sounds; traffic and people and neighbour’s televisions drifting through the walls. He’d crawled into his single bed and lay there in the stillness, covers half thrown down, revealing his upper body, heart thundering in his chest. He thought about his father and Harry and medical school. When he closed his eyes he saw Sherlock’s face; his perfectly sculptured face, his slanted eyes, his plum-coloured lips, the curls falling across his forehead, softening the harsh features. He saw the open smile, the one he’d only seen twice before, and the vulnerability in it. He thought about never seeing it again, or those eyes, or ever hearing Sherlock’s mocking voice again. Not that fragile voice, either. The one he’d only ever heard this afternoon. He wondered what it meant. _If you’d only asked me_ , John thought. _I would have given you anything. I would have been brave_.

Sherlock’s room was flooded with light, and he stared at the moon through the large windows. Was it to blame for his actions earlier today? The full moon was said to influence one’s actions and make your blood boil. The word _lunacy_ derived from the Latin _luna_. “Moon,” he whispered to the silence. There were years of hearsay and theories, but were there any facts? The facts were that it was between 356,400 km to 406,700 km from the Earth. It is composed of volcanic rock, rich in silicon, iron, calcium and magnesium, though mainly of oxygen, and it orbits the Earth at about 2288 miles per hour. _It cannot be held accountable for one’s actions_ , he concluded. _It is simply a rock floating in space, bound to the Earth_. It was a mystery. So was John. He was Sherlock’s moon. He was like a magnetic force that beckoned something inside of Sherlock. Despite all the facts he knew or deduced, there was always something new. John Watson was a whole new puzzle to unravel, though he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to. But he wanted to know _why_. Why John? He sighed and pulled the satin covers closer. _John_. Would he ever see him again once he’d graduated? His stomach turned at the thought. He wondered how he would make it through another year of school without him. He couldn’t recall life before John. There was only an empty void, the lingering taste of solitude. Maybe John was more like the sun. He made everything brighter. _Fuck it_. Allegories held no merit. He sighed and closed his eyes, felt himself drifting off to sleep with the image of a freckled face and clear blue eyes in the golden sun present in his mind. _I should have kissed you_ , he thought, _by the water. Now I’ll never know_.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rosalia for her help and BETA'ing skills, and Sophie for her encouraging words. Couldn't have done it without you.


End file.
